


Polyphony

by frozen_delight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Introspection, POV First Person, Plotless Weirdness, Season/Series 11, Season/Series 11 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7089331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/pseuds/frozen_delight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You call me the destructive one.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polyphony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> For viviansface, whose insightful 11x23 commentary prompted me to finish this.
> 
> Unbetaed, apologiest for any mistakes.
> 
> Weird soul polyphony with atheist overtones, born out of my boundless love for Amara. Do not expect this to make too much sense.

_I am who I am_ , you used to say. I never quite understood what you meant. I asked one of your priests, but all he offered me were stammered platitudes. His soul now glows inside me, somewhere below my kidney, like deep bronze foam riding on a sturdy wave, stuttering the words _penitence_ and _apotheosis_. This must be what love feels like.

For forty days I walk the earth, looking for answers. Looking for you. Then for forty more. And more.

A little boy from Somalia asks you to heal his momma. An old man from Peru curses you. A young blond woman cries out to you as she jumps out of the window. A poet chews on his pen and casts a mocking glance at the ceiling. _Shroud your heavens, Zeus. Shroud your heavens_. A prisoner faints at the foot of the gallows, but not before making the sign of the cross. _Eli, eli, lama asabtani_.

I kiss his dark Hiob’s brow, but he refuses the comfort.

_Wait on the Lord_ , says the priest.

_Peace, ye fat guts!_ returns the poet, and I can’t help but agree. I prayed, I waited, and you didn’t come. I waited for millennia.

I walk on, wading through a million _Why?_ s, each step weighed down by fresh questions, no answer in sight. Why create all these people, and then choose only a handful of them, leaving the rest to eternal damnation? Why create monsters only to ask men to destroy them? Why leave cryptic instructions to close the Gates of Hell you opened yourself? Why make your heavens a prison cell, and earth a rancid battlefield? Why take precautions to stop the Apocalypse you set in motion yourself? Why promise to dry the tears you do not keep from falling?

A cosmic toybox, nothing more. You never say yes, and you never say no. You just scatter your toys in the wind and watch them break and gather dust.

And you call me the destructive one.

_Patience_ , admonishes the priest.

“Whore!” shouts your son, or maybe it’s your favourite, Castiel. It’s difficult to tell them apart, especially when they twist in pain. He sounds like your tinny echo, one minute condemning me for having nothing, the next accusing me of having had it all. How does this ever make sense to you?

How does anyone ever listen to you?

_Don’t bother_ , scoffs the poet, incandescent indigo light in my thigh, _the pen has been in their hands_.

You claim that you created these human beings in your image. Yet they are a shy mirror.

It is in Dean that I recognize you best – in the unholy trinity of the forehead of an old man, the eyes of a child, and a pink, generous mouth that has been kissed too often. One essence, though, is utterly foreign – the undying loyalty towards his brother, which trumps everything, sense, conscience, morality, even his attraction to me.

You were never loyal, not to anyone, not to anything, least of all your dreams.

His lips were warm when I kissed them, and soft, the struggle inside him rendering them more scorching than a thousand suns. This time, though, when my fingers land on his face, they find nothing but marble-cold calm.

“Where are your thoughts?”

He looks away.

Away. You took it all away, all but shame and misery. You couldn’t have him be more than you, so you kicked him until he was less and less. And yet he still doesn’t have faith in you, brother.

_The irony_ , exclaims the poet; dry laughter ripples through the branches over our heads.

When I asked you to show yourself, this is not what I meant.

I yank my hand back from his face. For the first time, I fear that my caress might burn him.

The flowers I touch, they wither and die.

_Ashes to ashes, dust to dust_ , says the priest.

_Flush!_ cries the prisoner.

_My likeness, my brother_ , recites the poet, and throws the limp blossoms a tender glance.

When Dean comes to me again with halting steps, I keep my hands hidden in my lap.

I can hear them almost before I sense him – the thousands and thousands of restless spirits coursing through his chest. _Light_ , you called them, I am sure. To him, they are just rampant noise.

_Revenge_ , they shriek. _Kill. Stop, stop, stop!_

Dean frowns, like they are giving him a headache.

I wonder if this is what I sounded like in his head before he freed me, when I was restless and so alone.

“Family,” he says, and means, _Sam_.

_Family_ , repeats the poet, amused.

“Family, family, family.” Dean throws the word out again and again, as if trying to drown out the tumult inside him, until he finally finds something else to say. “What do you want?”

_Kill_ , it cries inside him with a hundred ferocious echoes.

“Can I touch you?” I whisper.

Maybe he won’t hear.

Yet suddenly silence reigns. Even the old lady I consumed in Ohio ceases her relentless chatter.

His eyes are startling with disbelief and hope. “You’ve never asked me that before.”

“I’m sorry.”

He smiles, a brief flash of light, then swallows. “You should ask him.” He adds, a pleading tone creeping into his voice, “It’s him you really want to ask.”

I pretend I don’t hear the question mark at the end of his sentence.

Instead, I turn to you, look into your once-familiar features, and try to find traces of Dean.

“I wish we could be family again,” I say.

You smile and hold out your hand. “I do too.”

The poet yawns.

_I’m hungry_ , says the prisoner.

_Amen_ , concludes the priest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feedback is love.
> 
> You can also talk to me here: [LJ](http://frozen-delight.livejournal.com/) | [Tumblr](http://frozen-delight.tumblr.com/)


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